Rain Women.
It’s the third and final day of this year’s powwow, and the third day of intermittent rain. This year, each wave of storms has been less cloudburst, more gentle soaking rain, the kind that nourishes rather than floods.
Exactly the kind for which we pray and dance.
So however inconvenient each passing storm becomes for those who are scheduled to dance or otherwise compete at any given moment, it’s only that: inconvenience. It’s also a blessing for the entire community, and overall, it’s treated that way. Contests can be pushed back until the storm passes, but the rain that falls in the meantime will aid the growth of crops and add to the local watersheds, including the Rio Pueblo that supplies waster for those who live in the old village. Such is traditional life in the desert, where water is to to be welcomed with gratitude — and its power respected.
I’ve told this story elsewhere many times, but now is as good a time as any to revisit it. Several years ago, in the depths of the area’s recent drought, I had to be in the western part of the state on business. It was the week of the Gallup Intertribal Powwow, and while I couldn’t stay for the whole gathering, I was able to cadge enough time to head out to the Red Rocks in the middle of the first day, so that I could see the opening ceremonies before having to head back to Albuquerque and Santa Fe on other business.
It was late July, the earliest days of the normal monsoon season, and the day dawned brilliantly clear and burning hot. The temperature, according to some of the local digital bank signs, hit 105 that afternoon. I drove out to the Red Rocks, parked, paid my entry fee at the turnstile, bought a terrible piece of fake frybread (a story for another day), and went to the arena to wait in the hot sun. At that point in the proceedings, preparatory to the first [afternoon] opening ceremonies, there are usually few attendees, and they can be divided into two groups: Indian dancers, singers, drum group members, sellers, and staff, and their family members there to support them; and [usually] white tourists. And so it was on this day, with the arena seating fairly segregated; I sat well away from everyone else in my own little space under the harsh blue sky.
Against the backdrop of sound checks by the emcee and the voices of excited children and the urgent murmurs of staff and dancers readying themselves for the Grand Entry, slowly, slowly, the clouds began to build, just as they do every afternoon at this time of year. Small, fluffy white clouds slowly expanded, reaching out to each other, moving together into their own assembly, as though preparing for their own Grand Entry. And as they moved and grew, their regalia changed in color and form, white at the top, gray in the center, blue-black at the skirts, until they rose over the Red Rocks into view. By now, the emcee was announcing the opening of that year’s Intertribal, issuing instructions for conduct during the invocation and presentation of the colors and the Grand Entry of the dancers. And as the clouds, now fully metamorphosed into thunderheads, grew in height and danced over the cliffs, the western sky itself changed from a deep sky blue backlit by the sun into a blue-violet gray.
Like the other Indians present, I looked skyward in gratitude, feeling the breeze cooling the sweat running down my face and body. Among us, a nearly-inaudible sigh of relief washed over the stands. Meanwhile, the tourists shot anxious glances skyward, now fanning themselves less from heat than from nerves, worried that it might rain, and there they were without their umbrellas.
And the emcee announced the invocation, to be delivered on this year by a Zuni spiritual elder.
The gentleman, wearing his day-to-day traditional dress, walked slowly to the microphone, head bowed slightly, showing humility before Spirit. A hush mostly fell over the scant crowd, underscored by tourists’ whispered conversations and punctuated occasionally by a baby’s cry. The elder stepped to the microphone, lifted his head slightly, and began to speak. He delivered, in English, a prayer of thanksgiving, asking Spirit to keep us mindful of our blessings, and while not asking outright for rain, noting The People’s gratitude for the rain if and when it should fall. He then repeated the entire prayer in his own native tongue, and at the moment that he reached the last line, which invoked the blessings of the rain, thunder rolled within the pregnant clouds over the western rim, causing the earth beneath the very arena to tremble and vibrate, and as he reached the final words, the first drops of rain fell from the sky.
The reaction was astonishing, entirely predictable, and yet hilarious.
A whoop went up from those of us in the non-tourist category. Families who had come prepared, despite the 105-degree heat, pulled out blankets, tarps, and even umbrellas to shield their families, or simply did as I did: We turned our faces to the sky to let the rain cleanse the sweat and grime and red dust from our skin and our souls, preparatory to reveling in the Grand Entry to come.
And a large number of tourists broke for the exits.
Some returned, umbrellas gripped tightly. But the number of returnees appeared to be a much smaller crowd.
The storm, of course, passed, and soon the sun was beating down on our heads again until the next wave of storms arrived. I was lucky enough to be able to stay and see several of the traditional dances from tribal nations in this area, including the young women who do the olla dances, in which they balance ollas (jars) on their heads while executing complex steps; the horsetail dancers, with “horsetails” on their regalia; and the famed Zuni Eagle Dancers, who wear gorgeous wings made of feathers strapped onto their arms and Eagle Spirit case masks. The last group included children, boys in stair-step sizes, all the way down to a little one who looked to be no more than four or five years old. He was so small that it was impossible to make a case mask to fit him properly, and it was clear that there was absolutely no way the child could see through the slits for the eyes, because the mask kept falling forward, the beak aiming toward his chest. None of it mattered. He was so skilled, and had so thoroughly memorized the steps and movements, that he danced it “blind” along with the rest, keeping perfect time with the drum.
Finally, I had to leave to get back to Albuquerque; I had an early-morning commitment the next day before heading to Santa Fe and then Taos. On my way out, as the clouds reformed and a few scattered raindrops fell, I passed a small impromptu circle where Navajo men were dancing: a gourd dance. Some of the women rose, wrapped themselves in blankets, and backed the men behind the circle, dancing in place, their knees the only movement: rising and falling like communal breathing, to the heartbeat of the small drum. I sat and watched for a few minutes, letting the rain wash over me along with the feelings of community and joy on the faces of those participating, talking with a few of the people present before heading to my car, shirt and jeans and boots now soaked.
We’ve had — unusually for us — light rain already this morning, and we will have yet more later today. It seems as good a time as any to highlight some of Wings’s work that pays tribute to the season — seasons, plural, actually, both monsoon season and powwow season. The earrings shown above, called “Rain Women,” were actually a companion pair to a set of earrings that have long since sold, “Rain Men“:
Their shape, which looks much like a human figure, gave them their name. Flared head, evoking the elaborate case masks and headdresses worn by the katsinam, the spirit beings; flared “legs,” like the kirtle of traditional ceremonial dress. And in the boxy center, the appearance of arms holding a single Skystone, rain fallen to Earth and hardened into a protective talisman.
He followed them up immediately with the next pair, shown above and again immediately below. From their description in the Earrings Gallery here on the site:
As they dance, female spirits bring with them the rain, that sign of abundant life in the desert. Hand-cut from sterling silver, each holds a deep blue Skystone with a mysterious inky swirl. Dozens of tiny hand-stamped “beads” on their regalia surround each stone and shimmer in the light.
Sterling silver; turquoise
$225 + shipping, handling, and insurance
The “beads” also remind me of the “jingles” on our iconic jingle dress, which is likewise a story for another day. And, yes, it’s true that each is not an exact duplicate of the other — just as no two women, and no two spirit beings, are exact duplicates of each other. Each is unique, each with its own unique characteristics and powers. It’s the old way of doing things: entirely by hand, and freehand at that, recognizing that it will not have that perfect matching appearance of machine-produced work, but that each piece will also have that individual identity and independent spirit that no machine can ever create. And like all of Wings’s work, creating them by hand, from nothing more than a vision and a few natural raw materials, ensures that they are thoroughly infused with spirit.
Meanwhile, today, our peoples dance: for the rain, for joy, for thanksgiving.
~ Aji
All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owners.
